


more than yesterday and less than tomorrow

by boleynqueens



Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Foreplay, Modern Era, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 22:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7193351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>"<i>Je serai poète et toi poésie</i>," he murmurs.<br/><i>I'll be the poet and you'll be the poetry.</i><br/>She wonders if he's saved French phrases specifically for this. It wouldn't surprise her if he had, he's terribly romantic, but she'll ask him later. Right now she wants something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	more than yesterday and less than tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> "The love letters Henry wrote to Anne were principally in French, but not the most sexually explicit of them."  
> \--Eric Ives
> 
> whitehall compliant (includes tie-ins and flashbacks from that story), future scene...i know not everyone that reads that verse is comfortable with smut, but i wanted to write their first time. so i decided to upload it separately, for anyone that wants to read about their first time.
> 
> to truly understand the significance of henry's "worth it" re: the greek myth thing, i would recommend scanning this: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diana_and_Actaeon

Anne wakes up, rolls over, and sees an empty space next to her in bed. Puzzled, she turns back to the nightstand, where the digital clock reads that it's half past seven in the morning, shielding her eyes from the sunlight streaming through the window.

She yawns and throws her legs over the side of the bed, walks to her closet and pulls an ankle-length skirt off a hanger. It's soft, cotton, and comfortable, the color of pine needles. There's a part that goes over the stomach similar to yoga pants, which she folds over into halves.

Anne slips her feet into cloth slip-on shoes and leaves the bedroom, then the apartment, locking it behind her.

* * *

The air is somehow slightly chilly and balmy at the same time, the sky above heavy with dark grey clouds.

Anne wishes she had brought a jacket, crosses her arms over her chest, only wearing the supple, cotton, short-sleeve tee shirt she slept in.

Henry appears, turning the corner of the sidewalk, and beams when he sees her. They meet in-between, and he removes his earbuds, shoving the wire of the headphones into the pocket of his jeans.

"You're up early," he says, tucking a wave of dark hair behind her ear.

"You were gone," she pouts, "I was worried."

"Just wanted to get a walk in before--"

A crack of thunder interrupts him, she startles but he doesn't, and he laughs.

"That," he says, pointing to the sky.

Rain starts to fall, softly at first, but quickly turns to a heavy, torrential downpour.

"Let's get back in--"

Anne interrupts his request with a kiss, standing on tippy toes to do so, arms twined around his neck. She pushes her body so that it meets his, feels the resistance of the flat of his chest under hers. Feels him respond in kind, wrap arms around her waist and keep her close, parting his mouth to the kiss.  

The rain soaks the back of her hair, her arms break out in goosebumps, but somehow she doesn't feel so cold anymore.

" _Mmm_ ," he groans, pulling away, "please, sweetheart, we'll catch our deaths--"

"You taste like rain," she murmurs, casting dark eyes upwards, "I like it."

"Will you _like_ being struck by lightning, because that's a distinct possibility with the thunder--"

" _Fine_ , never mind," she says, flouncing away, she makes quick strides towards the York Place apartment complex, the rain falling in absolute sheets obscures her visibility, so she shields her eyes against it with her hand, " _clearly_ you just don't want to make out with me, that's _fine_ \--"

"Oh, _please_ ," he scoffs, catching up with her, the sidewalk empty of any passerby except them, "that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

"Whatever you say," Anne says, airily, "actions speak louder than words, Henry, didn't you know?"

" _Anne_ …"

They reach the entrance to the door and she turns around in front of the glass window of the lobby to face him.

" _What_?" she demands hotly.

Henry startles visibly, almost jumps backwards, actually, much as she did when she heard the thunder rumble overhead, earlier.

"Um…"

Anne rolls her eyes, pushes the security key to the front door, and yanks it open.

Henry hurries in behind her.

"Um, _Anne_ ," he says, urgency brimming in his voice, "Anne, I think your…your…"

They make their way over to the elevator, and she notices his eyes darting around the lobby, anxiously, as if he has something to hide.

The elevator doors ding open, devoid of people, and he breathes what sounds like a sigh of relief ( _why is he being so…odd?_ )

They walk in together and he presses the button to their floor, stares straight ahead at the closed doors. Until, that is, his gaze flicks between the row of buttons and the doors, back and forth.

"Here," Henry says, his voice sounding like chords on a guitar that have been overly tightened, he unzips the front of his bright green hoodie, "put this on. I don't want you to get a cold."

 _Honestly, why is he_...she knows he's paranoid about colds, and flus, and any other illnesses, of course, so his concern regarding that isn't out of character. Still, the way he's acting, his jumpy behavior, _is rather bizarre_. 

"That's damp, too," Anne points out, brow furrowing, "I doubt it would help."

"Can you _please_ just--"

One of the buttons lights up, meaning someone requested the elevator, and his blue eyes, already larger than average, become almost comically wide.

Henry grabs Anne's hand and brings her to the corner of the elevator, effectively blocking her with his body and his height, bracing his arms on either side of her. The way they're positioned shields her from view of whoever's footsteps those are, his back facing the doors.

"Henry," she whispers, "what are you doing?"

"Trust me, please," he whispers back, sounding desperate, "okay?"

"I--"

He leans his head down to kiss her, slow and soft, still tasting of rain and what seems like a cherry cough drop, medicinal and sweet. She sighs into the kiss, despite the abruptness of the prologue to it.

Anne hears whatever neighbor came into the elevator clear their throat.

"Good _morning_ ," the man says, snidely, and she recognizes his voice-- Thomas Cranmer, a priest that lives a floor below them (she knows, has seen him at the mailboxes downstairs).

He's never been particularly fond of them or their previous public displays of affection before ( _the celibacy thing, maybe?_ ), so Anne's sure this isn't helping matters.

The doors ding open again and Cranmer leaves, muttering something under his breath about 'college kids', then close again.

Henry pulls away from her, so quickly she almost stumbles. He looks straight and determinedly at the doors again.

"What was _that_ all about?" Anne asks.

"Nothing," he says, lightly, gnawing on his fingernails, "nothing, just…"

The doors slide open to their floor and there's that heavy exhale of relief again, Henry hurries out and shouts, "Coming?"

Anne matches his pace, still confused, waits for him to unlock the door.

Once inside, she sets her own pair of keys on the hook by the door.

His key is symbolic of her trust. When Henry gifted her with the apartment ( _why_? she had asked, stunned, and he had answered that he remembered she had said she'd loved it the last time she was there), Anne had refused at first.

 _Oh_ , he said, clearly disappointed.

Anne explained she was just worried that it meant he'd…expect things. From her, that she wasn't ready to give.

 _I don't…but, if you're worried_ , he said, passing his own key over to her, closing her fingers over it in a fist, like the reverse of a blooming flower, _here. This way, I won't be able to come over. Unless I'm invited_.

Anne's trust towards him was buoyed further as he gave her medical panels, tests he did every month (since his insurance covered it anyway, he tested for everything, including STI's…she suspects that also has to do with his vigilant attention to his health in general, which borders on fanaticism). _No pressure_ , he had said, _just so you know_ … _for whenever you're ready_.

A while ago she had told him, abruptly, whilst they were studying together on the couch, her head resting against his shoulder, that she was on the pill, _just in case_.

 _Okay_ , he had said, kissing the top of her head, before returning to his textbook, flipping a page.

And that had been the end of that.

"What's going on?" she asks, again, and Henry spins around, away from her, rearranges a stack of books on the coffee table back into a neater pile, "Why are you being so _weird_?"

"I'm not," Henry says, standing to full height, gaze fixed on the spot above her shoulder, licking his lips, "Listen, why don't I get you a dry, clean shirt, like I said...I don't want you to get a cold--"

"Why won't you look at me?"

"I'm looking at you," he says, looking above her head, now.

"No, you're--"

" _Your shirt_ ," he blurts out, rubbing a hand over his face, "it's…um…"

Henry pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut, and Anne looks down at her shirt.

 _Oh_.

It's white, now soaked and plastered to the contours of her body, and it's…more or less completely transparent.

And she definitely didn't put a bra this morning; given that it was so early and she figured Henry was probably somewhere close to the building; that if he wasn't she'd just walk back and text him…and that she never sleeps in one.

_Girls Gone Wild video come to life, party of me…oops._

"Well," she says, lightly, crossing her arms over her chest, "that must have been…surprising."

His earlier reaction in front of the building entrance makes a  lot more sense now. As does the way he shielded her from view in the elevator, as well as his general aura of anxiety during the elevator ride.

"Sort of," he says, ridding himself of his jacket, he places the hood over the hook on the door, "I mean, I've never so much as seen you in a swimsuit, so--"

"Should I be offended?" she asks, voice small.

"What?"

"That you don't want to look--"

"Of course I want to! But I already saw, once, accidentally, without your permission, and I feel bad enough about that, so…no, I don’t want to look if it's not…your choice to show me."

Henry stands, back against the wall, reddish gold hair lying flat and damp, plastered against his forehead. He faces her, but doesn't draw his gaze from above her head, still, face flushed.

"Oh. Well, that's very…noble of you."

"Oh, no," he stammers, cupping his neck with one hand, "no, purely selfish reasons…I wouldn't want to get turned into a stag--"

"Excuse me?"

"The Greek myth," he says, waving a hand, "with the prince, Actaeon and Diana--"

"Diana is the Roman, and Artemis is the Greek," Anne interrupts, smoothly, shifts her arms somewhat, though they're still crossed, "I'm familiar with the myth. You _would_ cast yourself as the prince," she says, unable to suppress a giggle.

"And you as the goddess," he points out, gaze smoldering, boring into hers ( _certainly not stammering anymore_ , she thinks wryly, not entirely surprised by the switch from nervousness to boldness).

"Well…she was naked, though, wasn't she?"

"Bathing, yes, what's your--"

"And I'm not. _Yet,_ that is," she adds, smiling when she notices the way the color rises to his cheeks, again, "So I _think_ you're safe."

"'Yet'?" he asks, worrying his bottom lip with the front row of his teeth, a stark white against the full, reddish color of his mouth.

"Anyways…I disagree. I think it's chivalrous, really."

"I…I should go get you that--"

"I imagine it takes quite a bit of self-restraint, to avoid looking. When you want to," Anne continues, tilting her head to the side.

"It's not a…it's fine, I--"

"It must be difficult," she says, dipping her head, sauntering towards him, "not to look."

"It's…fine," he says, breathing heavily through his nose, he closes his eyes, eyelashes glistening, damp from the rain.

"It must be _hard_ not to," Anne reiterates, placing a hand on his hip, she places the other over the zipper of his jeans, cupping the bulge there, smirking when she hears him groan, "certainly feels that way."

Anne withdraws her hand, lays it against his chest, with the expectation that he'll start kissing her.

"You…"

"Yes?" she asks, batting her eyelashes.

"You must be freezing," he says, clearing his throat, he runs his hand up and down her bare arm.

Anne bristles.

_Jesus Christ, is he for real?_

Also…she's getting the _strangest_ sense of _déjà vu_...

 _Ah, right_. That night at her father's house, before they were even dating, when the weather closed the roads and Henry had had to stay over…

> _"What do you think? You like what you see?" she inquires, tilting her head to the side._
> 
> _"You're…" he extends an arm, rubs his hand up and down her arm, "you're freezing--"_
> 
> _"Yeah? Keep me warm, then," she says, placing a hand against the plane of his chest, she can feel the beat of his heart._

"Henry," she says, evenly, "I'm pretty sure I've implied this with a fair amount of clarity, but if you're still waiting for explicit permission: I want you to look. I want you to look and that's my choice."

* * *

"Are you sure--"

"Yes. You first," Anne says walking backwards, away from him, she nods to his chest, crossing her arms over hers again.

 _I want you to look_ …now that he _has_ permission, _she's hiding them?_ _Rude_.

"Bossy," he quips, pulling his shirt over his head.

"You love it."

"No arguments there," Henry admits, watching as her dark brown eyes sweep over his form (appreciatively, he hopes…her grin seems to suggest that, anyways).

Anne cants her head to the side, in a considering sort of manner, before she approaches him. She runs the palm of her hand down his bare chest, brow furrowed.

* * *

"You're… _smooth_ ," she says, sweeping over his chest again, this time with the back of her hand, surprised at the lack of hair.

He's slender, muscled, too, but in a delicate sort of way, which is her preference. His skin is soft to the touch as she feels the divots under the pads of her fingers. Anne stops at a small, faded scar under his collarbone, tracing it.

"Swimming," he explains, "why, do you mind?"

"No," she says, with a shrug, "you're like a…dolphin."

"Pardon?"

"A _sexy_ dolphin, of course."

"You," he says, laughing and shaking his head, "are _so_ fucking weird."

"Says the guy who can recite the biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine by heart," she counters, sliding her hand up the length of his neck.

"I wasn't kidding when I said I didn't want you to get chilled, you know," Henry says, lacing his fingers in the damp, black waves of her hair.

"Oh?" Anne asks, releasing her hand, she rests on the balls of her feet again rather than the tip-toes required to meet his height.

"No. I think we should get you warm as _soon_ as possible," he says emphatically, sliding a hand up under her shirt, drumming his fingers against her stomach.

"I don’t disagree," she murmurs, and he smiles, slips his hand out from under her shirt.

Henry takes one of hers in his and kisses it, then lets it go. He circles around her, like a lion around his prey, and her heart pounds. He places one hand on her left, one on her right, shoulder, before leaning down from behind, close to her ear.

"Let's get you out of these wet clothes, darling," he whispers, "shall we?"

"Let's."

His hands slide down the wet material of her tee, which still clings to her back. He tugs on the hem before pulling it up her back.

"Raise your arms," he says, and she does, embarrassed that she forgot to, distracted as she is by the warmth of his hands and the feeling of his presence behind her.

Anne hears the shirt fall on the floor and feels exposed, chest uncovered to the air, even though he can't see it from where he stands. But he takes his time, lifts her waterfall of hair off her neck, placing it over her shoulder.

Henry leans down and kisses the back of her neck: first the spot to the left of her spine, then the spot to right, and then a spot on her spine itself, causing her to shudder. He brushes both hands down the muscles of her back, then slides them over her sides.

His hands have smooth spots and calloused ones, but they always feel warm whenever they touch her. But right now, the contrast between the coolness of her bared skin and the heat of his hands create a level of heat she's unfamiliar with, higher than usual.

Henry raises his hand to her upper back now, tracing his thumb over it. He digs into a spot of tension, rubbing it out with his thumb, fingers splayed over her shoulder as he works it out.

Anne leans her head to the side, relaxing and melting into his touch, the way he eases the ache with assurance and firmness.

She tells herself she shouldn't be surprised that he's spending so much time focusing on her back: he seems to have a thing for it, as she recalls…

> _"I don't think of anyone else," he continues, "all I can seem to think about is what I've seen…what I haven't seen, what I'd like to see."_
> 
> _"What you'd like to see," she echoes, "what do you mean?"_
> 
> _He hasn't let go of her hand yet, turns and backs up to the counter with the stovetop, rests his back against it and shifts her, till her back's against his chest, snakes one arm around her waist._
> 
> _She can feel the warmth of his chest, it blooms against the previous chill on her back, erasing it entirely._
> 
> _Anne doesn't stop him, can't even pretend that she wants to, melts when he lifts her hair from her back and drapes it all over her right shoulder, exposing her neck._
> 
> _She feels his hand, warm, slide up her arm, dip under the cap of her shirt, feels two of his fingers tug her bra strap, then slide it down her shoulder. He leaves it there, hanging on the side._
> 
> _"Guess," he whispers, hand cupping her shoulder, thumb brushing her shoulder blade._

"I want you, and I want to see you," he says, stroking her hair, "do you still want me to?"

"Yes. You still worried about being turned into a stag?" she teases, but he's moved to face her before she can process the fact that he's even started to move and she stills.

"I think," he answers, hoarsely, rapt at her appearance, studying her carefully, dark blue gaze roaming over her chest and waist, "that it'd be worth it, honestly."

Anne blinks, owlishly, arms at her side.

_I don't know what to say._

"You don't have to say anything," Henry says (the previous sentence had been uttered aloud by her mouth without permission from her brain, _apparently_ ), staring, "you're…you're…"

"Beautiful?" she supplies, helpfully, preening a little, twisting a lock of hair around her finger.

"Of course...that and...something more than that. Wondrous, and…other things I can't name at this…particular moment."

"Tell me later," she says, brusquely, and he shakes his head, as if he were under hypnosis and she said the magic phrase to snap him out of it.

Anne turns and walks to their bedroom, because she's not about to have her first time be in the living room. She deserves a bedroom, she thinks, and luckily theirs is beautiful, decorated by both of them.

* * *

Henry rid himself of his jeans on his way from the living room to their bedroom, they're somewhere behind the path he walked now.

The rain beats against the window, the light in the room is dim, save for the lamp on their bedside table. He had grabbed a candle and a lighter from the kitchen before following her inside and she had rolled her eyes, wrapped her arms over the waistband of his boxers from behind and said, _Henry, I really don't want to wait for that._ She had pushed her lips against his spine, gliding a hand in a languorous path upwards, from his stomach to his chest, _alright_?

He didn't argue, so both candle and lighter are next to the lamp on the mahogany table. 

Anne sits on the edge of the bed and he kneels, shucks her skirt off to reveal thong underwear, covered in black lace, the hooks of fabric around her jutting hips seem to be made of lace entirely.

He climbs onto the bed and she settles into his arms with ease. 

"I want to be the only one that matters," he murmurs, forehead pressed against hers, hands splayed on her back.

* * *

"What do you mean? You _are_ the only that matters."

"I don't want you to think of…others, I would hate that," he says, rubbing the edge of his nose, larger than hers, against her own.

"Why are you jealous? You have no reason to be!"

Anne only has two ex boyfriends, _for God's sake_ , and even _that_ number is rounding them up. Henry knows this. She's _told him this_.

"I'm inclined that way, I suppose," he admits, pulling her onto his lap, palming her breasts, "and then, when it comes to you, I'm…wildly jealous, really."

"Oh?" she asks, giggling as he nuzzles a sensitive spot behind her ear.

"I am," Henry says, cupping her face, a ferocity brims beneath the tenderness of his expression and his intent, eyes fervent, " _wildly_ jealous," he reiterates, tracing the cupid's bow of her mouth with his finger tips, "of _anyone_ ," he taps once, against her bottom lip, and she feels her mouth part open, slightly, reactively, "that has _ever_ touched you…."

"Here," he begins, kissing the corner of her mouth, "here," kissing the side of her neck, "here," sweeping a hand over her breasts, he catches the nipples on the passing brush of his fingertips, grins when he hears her quiet gasp and sees them harden, "or…."

Henry and Anne are in some sort of staring contest now, as he traces a circle on her upper thigh, as close as he can get to her underwear without actually touching it.

"Or where?" Anne asks, finally, faintly, and he nods before moving the hand from her thigh to her sex, skidding his thumb against the lace:

"Here," he finishes.

"No one's ever," Anne says, easing herself off his lap, she pulls a pillow from the headboard and hugs it, "no one's ever touched me there."

"No one's touched you...where? Which one?" he asks, worrying one of his earlobes between his thumb and forefinger, eyes wide. 

"The last one. And, well, the second to last one, really…well except for myself, that is," she admits, blushing, tucking her hair behind one ear.

"You've never…"

"No."

"Do you want--"

"I _want_ ," she says, hugging the pillow around her tighter, but nodding, determinedly, gaze level with his, all the same.

"I'm glad you told me. We'll go slow, then…the last thing I want is to hurt you."

Anne nods.

"Can I move this?" Henry asks, pointing to the pillow with a gentle smile, "are you shy, or…?"

"Shy to tell you that," she admits, lifting her arms, "but not shy to show you."

He pushes her hair behind her ear, gently, before easing the pillow away from her and setting it down on the bed.

"Make yourself comfortable," Henry says, getting up "you should be lying down, for the first part, and I'll be on the floor."

"You will?"

"Yes. I'll be right back--hydration's important."

* * *

Anne's head is resting against a few pillows, underwear still on. She had a sip of the hot peppermint tea he brought, then some from a glass of water, before settling in. The honey from the tea left a smoothness in her mouth that she still feels.

As promised, Henry is kneeling on the carpet, in between her legs; wearing only his boxers and a still awe that overwhelms her, as he kisses every inch of her calf, then the inside of her knee.

 _Tell me if you don't like something, or if you do like it. It's important.  We can stop whenever you want, and please let me know if you do,_ he had told her.

"First, we'll try it like this," he says, strokes the front of her underwear with the back of his index and middle finger, the friction the movement creates, combined with the way he looks at her, stirs something in her. Henry notices, she assumes, since he curves them and rubs her center from the left to right, applying a slight increase of pressure. He raises both, _almost_ touching her clit over the silk and lace, slides them over the edge of it. 

It's only the barest hint of touching, and she craves more. 

"Did you like--"

She nods, and he smiles and says, "You might like this, then…is it okay if I put them under the--"

"Yes!"

"It might feel strange at first," he warns, sliding them under the cloth of the underwear he strokes her sex, once, very lightly, "it's a delicate area, it feels everything, and I have calluses on some of--"

Anne stutters out a gasp and his eyes brighten at the reaction. He curls his fingers against her, asks, "More?"

She nods, arches her back at the touch and he buries them deeper inside of her, then out, slowly, as she moans. Now wet from the inner walls of her sex, he slides her clit in between his two knuckles, works them slowly and feather-light (Anne shivers, feels feather-light, too, on the verge of floating) on either side, before slipping his hand out.

"Can I try something else?"

"What is it?" she asks, faintly, adjusting her head on the pillow, neck feeling limp, she closes her eyes.

"Can I kiss you…here?" Henry asks, cupping her sex, "over it? If you like that, you'll probably like it sans underwear as well--"

"Sure," Anne agrees, easily, eyes still closed and _ooooh_.

His tongue, pressed flat against her, feels much better than his fingers did. She feels dampness spread against the silk of her underwear, the friction between the layers, again, and she wonders how much is from his mouth and how much is from how it's affecting her.

Given the way it's pooling, she hazards a guess it's more of the latter than the former.

And now it's kissing, like he said, he manages to suck in between her legs even through it, albeit it in gentle, tiny sips, but she feels them nonetheless. He teases, then, hooks his fingers in the front, pulls the fabric towards him, away from her skin, before biting it, smiling around it. 

"Those are expensive, don't you dare tear--"

He lets go and the cover snaps back, as does his mouth, pressed more insistently than before. When he touches it with his tongue it's with a softer touch than he applied with his mouth. Relaxed, though not limp...until he swipes it horizontally, that is, and begins to nuzzle at her covered sex with a deeper enthusiasm. 

Anne's not sure if it'll feel better without the friction of the lace or with it (it feels pretty amazing with it, honestly, enough so that she bites her fist around a moan to keep from crying out), but she wants to find out.

"Do the next step," she asks, wriggling her hips, "please."

"Oh, I _love_ that you said please. But, ladies' first," Henry says, standing, crossing his arms.

"Excuse me?" she demands, sitting up.

Anne crosses her legs, squeezes the muscles of her inner thighs, feeling like she's going to burst from the tension thrumming between them.

* * *

"You said you touch yourself, no?"

" _So_?" she snaps, one crossed knee bumps up and down, leg trembling. Henry catches the movement, beaming when he realizes what it implies.

" _So_ …show me how you do it. Watching it will help me…for the next part. To see what you like."

"If you insist," she huffs, pulling the edges of her underwear down and over her legs, "aren't you bored, though? I haven't even touched _you_ yet…"

"'Bored'? Is _hardly_ the word I'd use," he scoffs, kneeling down again, he eases them down the rest of the way. Her feet arch, the muscles taut, like a ballerina's as he pulls the left and right gap over each one. 

Henry bunches them in his hand before tossing the pair over his shoulder, carelessly. 

"Rude," she remarks.

"You're not wearing a goddamn thing, and I'd like to keep it that way. If that makes me 'rude'," he says, with a shrug, "so be it."

Anne smirks then, dark eyes sparkling with mischief. _The way the left corner of her mouth twists upwards is cute_ , he thinks, as it displays the dimple on that cheek.

"What are _you_ so smug about?" he asks, but then Anne cups his cheek with one hand, and taps his lips with the other.

"Open, please," she asks, sweetly, and dumbfounded, he does.

Anne eases her fingers into his mouth and he circles his tongue around them, once, a fluid motion, before she extracts them.

She lies back down against the pillow and glides the same fingers, wet from his mouth, over the top of her sex.

_I've never been more aroused._

"I'm sure _that's_ not true," she says, giggling, she adjusts her head against the pillow and her hair falls away from her neck, exposing the hollow of her glossy throat.

"What?" he asks, dumbly, feeling the tips of his ears warm at her amused look...an amusement caused by the utterance of what was meant to be a private thought.

_Oops._

"I wanted to feel you there," she explains, sweetly, rubbing a slow circle over her sex, eyes never leaving his.

* * *

Gripped by urgency (but thirst, first, her words left his throat dry as a desert, he drinks from his glass of ice water before returning to the bed), Henry kisses the side of her left breast, rounded against the flick of his tongue, before Anne swats at the top of his head.

"Ah, ah, _ah_ ," she scolds, giggling at his mouth, hanging open in shock at the reprimand, "you said you wanted to watch. So _watch_."

"Fine," he grouses, resting his cheek against her knee.

He watches, intently, asks questions every so often, that she answers: _do you curve your fingers like a bow or do you like to lay them flat_ (varies, but usually the former, especially towards the end), _do you touch yourself anywhere else besides in between your legs_ (yes, and she shows him where), _how do you finish_ (depends, sometimes with a vibrator, sometimes she just pushes her fingers deep inside and moves them quickly, sometimes she squeezes her legs around the pressure) _what do you think about to get yourself to come_ …

"You," she says, steadily, before removing her hand from between her thighs and resting it, palm up, on the sheet.

 _Fuck_.

Anne sits up, shrugs, and then rests her head against one of the pillows that rest against the headboard.

"I think," she continues, idly, dragging a hand against the violet sheet under her, as he gets up and lies down next to her, resting on one elbow, "that satin might not have been the wisest decision, given the slipperiness factor, what if one of us just _slides_ right off--"

"You won't if you believe in yourself," Henry interrupts, caressing her side, her hip, before pulling her closer, "tell me more."

"What do you want to know?"

"The first time you did."

"Thinking about you? I was dating Percy, still…"

" _Really_?" he asks, grinning as she rolls her eyes, snuggling closer to him, "When?"

"At the library."

" _At_ the library?" he asks, lowly, incredulous at the admission, his hand travels to her back, splays flat against it.

They're close enough that the tip of his nose touches hers, that he can feel the heat from the blush that spreads over her face. It rises from the apples of her cheeks, dusting a light pink all the way up to the end of her eyelashes, black and long, ending in little points like stars.

"You said him calling me a princess was stupid…"

"Mmm," Henry says, kissing the point above her collarbone that meets with the curve of her neck, "and I stand by that. Continue."

"…and that if we were together, you'd call me queen…you don't remember?" she asks, quietly, lowering her lashes and gnawing on her lower lip. 

> _"Anyway…'princess'?" he asks, wrinkling his nose, "really?"_
> 
> _"What?"_
> 
> _"Like, is that a regular thing? Does he call you that often?"_
> 
> _"Yes. What's wrong with that?"_
> 
> _"Doesn't suit you."_
> 
> _"Excuse me?" she asks, crossing her arms._
> 
> _"Doesn't," he says with a shrug, "sorry."_
> 
> _"Says who?"_
> 
> _"Says me. I'd never call you that."_
> 
> _"Why would you be calling me anything in the first place?"_

"Of _course_ I remember," he says, emphatically, flicking his index against the slope of her nose, "I remember everything. Although now," he says, chuckling, "I'm certainly going to remember it a little differently…"

"Shut _up_!" Anne snaps, burying her face in the crook of his neck.

"No! You didn't…touch yourself behind a shelf or something, did you?"

" _No_!" she gasps, clearly offended, voice muffled, into the skin of his neck, before biting it after his shoulders shake with barely suppressed laughter (which turns to a yelp when he feels the edge of her teeth), "I did it in the bathroom."

> _She walks quickly to the bathroom, rushes like she's racing to some sort of finish line._
> 
> _She grabs the handle--unlocked, fantastic--and goes to the sink._
> 
> _The water pressure's weak, but it'll have to do. She puts it on the coldest setting possible and splashes her face, to no avail. It's like she's caught a fever from which there is no escape._
> 
> _Anne looks at herself in the mirror. Her face is flushed still, and feels warm when she touches it._
> 
> _Anne opens to the door to the restroom, peeks down the hall to see if anyone's in line to use it._
> 
> _No one._
> 
> _She slams the door shut, locks it and presses her back against it._
> 
> _And then, she starts to do something that would be considered very rude to do here by polite society, something that should not be done in public restrooms._
> 
> _But, whatever. It's private, a single, locked, and it's not as if she's being unhygienic, really, she reasons with herself…all she had to was dip her hand below the waistband on her skirt, the skirt and sweater tied around her waist are a sufficient barrier between her backside and the door, after all…_

"That _hurt_!" he exclaims, scowling.

"Yeah, well, you deserved it."

"Probably."

He liked it, kind of, actually, but… _she_ doesn't need to know that. _Yet_.

"I still haven't cashed in on that," Anne says, pulling her mouth away from his neck, he lies down flat on his back and she rests her head against his chest, "by the by."

"On…?"

"The queen thing."

> _"I can take a hint," he says, getting up from his chair, "I'll leave you alone--"_
> 
> _"Just…"_
> 
> _She closes her eyes, as if she can't bear to look at him while she asks, "what would you call me, then?"_
> 
> _Henry makes it seem as if this question takes some serious reflection, though he already knows (has known, since he sat down, actually) how he's going to answer._
> 
> _"Queen," he answers, as if he's just settled on it, "nothing else would fit."_
> 
> _He watches the color rise to her face, satisfied that his answer has had the desired effect._

_Seems as good a time as any_ , Henry figures.

"Let me show you proper deference, then," he says silkily, pushing her chin upwards with the crook of his index, she lifts her gaze and locks it onto his. Her eyes darken, the deep pools of them seem to deepen even more, "fitting your station."

* * *

"You have constellations," Henry continues, taking her hands in his, and kissing each one, before wriggling out from underneath her, "I'm going to map them."

Well, she certainly likes the sound of that, although she's not really certain what he means by constellations… _'mapping', though, can be nothing but good_.

"I have…what now?" she asks, lying on her back, he hovers over her, arms on either side of hers, and balances on one to tap a finger against a dark, small circle on her neck.

"Starting here," he murmurs, kissing it, and then the next, on her collarbone.

"Those are called birthmarks," she says coyly, tilting her head backwards, lifting her neck into his kisses, "or moles, I _believe_."

"Well," he continues, pressing his mouth, closed, onto the three that dot her cleavage in the shape of a triangle, "you know what they say about birthmarks, don't you?"

"No," she says, voice breathy, as he lays an open-mouthed kissed against the side of her left breast, smoothing his tongue over the nipple with the flat underside of it, ( _technically that's not even cheating_ , given that she knows she has one there…it's something she's had some self-consciousness over, counted as a flaw, even considered bleaching cream for it whilst she was in high school, although at this particular moment she's _very_ grateful it's there), his head dips in between her breasts again and she runs her fingers through his hair, close to his scalp, grasping it as he moves to the right one, " _ah_ … _what_ do they say?"

"They _say_ ," Henry answers, blowing a warm, teasing breath against her right breast before kissing the underside of it, "it means you've been kissed by an angel."

"Or maybe it means you'll be kissed by one later," she quips, giggling, squirming a bit.

"Between the two of us, I'd bet money on you being the angel," he whispers, " _mon ange, non_?"

_My angel, no?_

"You said that…correctly," she remarks, shivering as he caresses her stomach, angles his head so that his mouth touches the dip of the small of her waist, dragging his teeth over it.

"Well, I had a good tutor, if you recall," Henry says, sweetly, before hoisting himself off the mattress. He walks around the edge of the bed and winks at her.

Anne sits up, hands flat against the bed.

"Where are you…"

Henry kneels at the edge of the bed and stares at her, raising his eyebrows. Thunder rolls, the wind howls outside, rattling the window, and lightning flickers over his features. It casts shadows, he shuts his eyes, his light eyelashes cast shadows down the top of sculpted cheekbones.

"Deference," he says, eyes opened but lashes lowered, he lifts them to hers, with a ferocity that almost reminds her of anger, "remember?"

 _Ah_.

She slides over (easy, on the satin sheet), still sitting, knees over the edge of the bed, closed together.

" _Ma belle reine_ ," he whispers, cupping his hand over one, and she parts them.

 _My beautiful queen_.

He dips his head in between them, but doesn't do what she expects him to.

"One more here," he whispers, tracing the outline of a light brown birthmark on the inside of her thigh, the shape of an oval, "Anne… _j’ai envie de toi_."

 _I want you_.

" _Prends-moi_."

 _Take me_.

"Lie down for me, sweetheart?"

She does, and he pulls her to the foot of the bed.

"Are we doing the next part?" she asks, giggling, resting folded hands against her chest before dragging them down to her hips.

Henry grabs them, circling her wrists, and says:

 _"Le seul vrai langage au monde est un baiser_ …do you agree?"

_The best language in the world is a kiss._

"I'll let you know," she says, softly, and he laughs before he releases her wrists, reaching around her thighs instead.

"Please do."

* * *

The first thing Anne thinks is that her quick reaction is embarrassing: only a few seconds after his tongue laps against her sex, her hips cant upwards, on their own, independent from her thoughts entirely.

The motion makes her pubic bone meet with his nose, cold against it, as he takes careful, slow sips at her entrance.

The next is that she couldn't describe what this feels like if she tried, although if she did she'd say this:

It feels like she's melting against something that feels as luxurious as the satin her back rests against. All the sensations at once are overwhelming, all-encompassing.

Anne's always noticed his bee-stung lips, the reddish fullness of them, always thought they were gorgeous. They feel as gorgeous as they look, she finds, maybe even more so.

It's not just his mouth but everything else that brings her pleasure. The steadiness and firm grip his hands have against her thighs, even as they start to tremble. The way he rests his cheek, cool, petal-like against her own skin, every so often when he pauses, ghosting his lips against her, as she grasps the sheet and begs him to keep going.

It's the throbbing feeling between her legs that he eases and eases until it relents; before the pressure builds there again, the way he seems to know, instinctively, when it's too much, when to smooth over the tension.

And then there's the way it's like it's felt when she's touched herself, but better-- he must have truly taken notice as he watched her do so, because it's like he does everything that's always got her going, but better, somehow. Better by the element of surprise alone, that she doesn't know which level of pressure or where on her sex or body he'll touch next, better by waiting for it and wanting, wanting, _wanting_.

Better by the movements being controlled by her boyfriend rather than herself. Better by saying his name, _Henry_ , and _please_ , and _yes_ , and _God_ , knowing he's listening and there, hearing his coy responses to everything she says (the thrumming hums, vibrating against her, causing her to shudder in pleasure, _please what, Anne?_ , _fall apart for me_ , _do you like that?, that's the seventh time you've said my name, yes, of course I'm counting_ )

Better by the sensation of the muscles in her thighs clenching around his face.

He teases, backs away every so often and leaves butterfly kisses against the edge of her knee. Grins, his mouth swollen, red, and shining, when she whimpers and writhes. Smirks, then winks before sliding his fingers in his mouth. Pulls them out with a pop, then grabs her thighs before he kisses her sex, circles the slick fingers around and then on her clit every so often as he eats her out. 

* * *

" _Je serai poète et toi poésie_ ," he murmurs, breaths coming out in short pants. He had brought her to orgasm deftly, stayed and stroked the outsides of her legs, shifted the insides of her knees back onto his muscular shoulders when they started to fall off, slick with sweat and trembling. Pulled away, slowly, during the descent, and now his cheek rests against her knee.

 _I'll be the poet and you'll be the poetry_.

She wonders if he's saved French phrases specifically for this. It wouldn't surprise her if he had, he's terribly romantic, but she'll ask him later. Right now she wants something else. The way his eyes are glimmering as they look at her, with intent, singular focus; makes her think he's ready to continue with the act.

"Maybe _I_ want to be the poet, Henry."

"Oh?"

" _J'ai envie de toi…desesperement._ "

_I want you...desperately._

"What do you want, exactly?" he asks.

" _Fais-moi l'amour_."

_Make love to me._

Anne hates that expression in English, it always sounds cheesy to her. _Most things sound better in French_.

* * *

She settles herself over his length, the hardness of it, carefully, and rests her knees against the bed.

He hisses, then exhales through his mouth, slowly. His chest heaves up, and down, before he closes his eyes and stills. His mouth parts, slightly, as she shifts over him (she stops when she feels soreness, pulls up a bit, and it relents), and he opens his eyes, slowly, like he's waking up from a pleasant dream. The expression on his face softens to a certain tenderness, one she's only seen towards herself a handful of times...one that, she's pretty sure, is reserved for her only.

Rain beats against the window. Anne breaks the stare between them; feels that she needs a break from the sensual intensity, the connection of the moment, just for a little while. She watches the rain drops streak against the window. Maybe she'll remember this on every day it rains; what it felt like to have him inside her for the first time.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, his hand gripping the side of the bed, knuckles white.

"No," she reassures, because it doesn't, it's just…different. She's used a vibrator before, but it's not really that similar, besides the hardness. Skin doesn't compare, and his feels like silk (he's uncircumcised, which had been a surprise, although not an unwelcome one...it's uncommon, is all, or so she's heard from girlfriends with sex lives more active than hers over the years).

"What do I...do?" she asks, struck by shyness, suddenly, at having to ask the question itself.

"Oh, um…you just sort of cant or...rock your hips, back and forth. At the pace you'd like, at whatever's comfortable for you."

So she does, and eventually the thrusts lead to a brushing against her clit and she gasps, tries to repeat it.

"Are you okay--"

"I want to go faster, how do I do that--"

"Try leaning back," he says, a trickle of sweat falls from his forehead, down his face, "um…rest your wrists against the, and…yes, like that… _fuck_." 

She throws her head back as she rides him, feels her hair, glossy and no longer wet from the rain, shift against her back, tickling it, feels his hands push up her stomach. They brush up and over her breasts, he strokes his thumb over each nipple and she arches her back as they slide back down to hold the edge of her hips.

It's not rubbing against her in quite the same way, her center starts to throb on the edge of pain instead of pleasure, so she leans back forward, closer to him, and Henry leans up, meeting her, their foreheads almost touching, both panting out gasps.

* * *

Filled with exultance, and wanting to touch more of her, reach more of her, he flips her over to change positions.

It's one fluid motion, circular, that puts her on her back. Her leg moves to wrap around his back but he pushes it back, holds it tight under his arm, sliding his hand down to grab her ass.

"Harder," she demands, her face and neck flushed, dewy with sweat.

Her brown eyes look huge, like a doe's, wide-set as they are, pupils large within them. He cups the side of her face in his hand and she melts against it, chin shifting into it.

"Harder what?" he asks.

"Harder…everything, harder."

So his hand squeezes where he slid it down, he thrusts into her with more vigor and she moans as she tugs at his hair, gently, at first, but then pulling _it_ harder as well. He kisses her from the top of her throat, just under her chin, to the base of it. He returns to lick a hot stripe down the same path he kissed. Henry repeats both actions, in the same order, from the base of her throat down to her clavicle.

Her bent knee cants towards her own body, still, although his arm's not holding it anymore.

Her fingernails rake against his chest, lightly, and he buries his face into her neck, pushing into her.

"More," she says, wrapping both legs around him, pulling him closer. Anne squeezes her legs around his back, tightly, as he thrusts, matching the thrusts in intensity and timing.

"I love you," he whispers, throat raw, it comes out in a rasp, hoarse as he nuzzles behind her ear, "oh my God, I love, love, love you, I love you…"

He trembles as he comes, her legs pressed against the muscles of his back as he does, clenched tight around his waist. One of her arms is snaked around his upper back and that holds him tightly to her, too.

* * *

"I love you," she says, as he rubs body wash into her back with a sponge, water steaming as it falls onto the floor of the shower.

Tears were streaming down his face after they were done, slipping down onto the bed as he lay on his back. Anne had been too awed by that to say anything in response. Instead she had kissed him on the cheek, taken his hand, and asked if they could shower together.

"Do you?"

"I've said that before," she points out, and he rubs the soap onto her skin directly, with his hand, in circles, low on her back.

"Not often. I might believe it more if you said it French," Henry teases.

"Or if you said it while your back wasn't turned," he says, quietly, more solemnly, as he plays with her hair.

So she turns around, and faces him, looking directly at him. Twists her hair into a rope, around one shoulder, rivulets of water spilling down her body as she does. His gaze trails them as they fall before he meets hers. 

His eyes shine, glossy with unshed tears, lending more vibrancy to the blue. His cheeks are a dusky pink, and she wonders if that's from the heat of the shower or embarrassment, vulnerability;  _perhaps a combination of all three_. 

There's a sensitivity to him that's almost like a hunger, a need for reassurance. Usually it's tucked away, she thinks, but he reveals it often in private moments with her. _This seems to be one of them_.

" _Je t'aime_ ," Anne says, leaning upwards and pushing his hair off his forehead, tenderly, "I love you. I promise, I do."

" _Je t'aime plus qu'hier et moins que demain_ ," Henry replies, embracing her, pulling her body against his.

 _I love you more than I did yesterday and less than I will tomorrow_.

"Why," she asks, timidly, head nestled to his chest, "because we had sex?"

"No. Because you're you."

It is, quite possibly, the best answer he could have given.

She doesn't think she'll ever forget it.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a combination of things, including an anon on tumblr asking one of my mutuals if she knew of any smut fics about anne and henry's first time in calais, and the ives quote listed above. 
> 
> and also this 8tracks mix:
> 
> http://8tracks.com/madamreine/let-them-grumble
> 
> and this mythology ask on tumblr from forever ago reminded me of the diana/actaeon story: http://boleynqueens.tumblr.com/post/137997839972/oh-oh-oh-annehenry-mythology-au


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